CHAPTER I

Patty was in the sun parlour, her arms full of a fluttering
bundle of lace and linen, and her blue eyes wide with
dismay at her small daughter’s facial contortions.

“Only with laughter,” Bill reassured her
after a quick glance at the restless infant.
“Give her to me.”

The baby nestled comfortably in his big, powerful
arms, and Patty sat back in her chair and watched
them both.

“What a pleasure,” she said, complacently,
“to be wife and mother to two such fine specimens
of humanity! She grows more and more like you
every day, Little Billee.”

“Well, if this yellow fuzz of a head and this
pinky peach of a face is like anybody in the world
except Patty Farnsworth, I’ll give up!
Why, she’s the image of you,—­except
when she makes these grotesque grimaces,—­like
a Chinese Joss.”

“No; a girl baby is always her mudder’s
own—­only just her very own mudder’s
own. Give her to me! Let me has my baby,—­my
ownty-donty baby!”

Farnsworth obediently handed Patty her property, and
put another pillow behind her as she sat in the low
willow chair. Then he seated himself near, and
adoringly watched his two treasures.

It was mid-April and the Farnsworths had been married
more than a year. On their return from France,
they had looked about for a home, and had at last
found a fortunate chance to buy at a bargain a beautiful
place up in Westchester County. It was near enough
to New York for a quick trip and yet it was almost
country.